


Hogun the Grim

by Coherent_Nonsense



Series: The End [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Loss, Pre-Canon, Pre-Thor (2011), Refugees, Teenagers, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 05:19:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14325471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coherent_Nonsense/pseuds/Coherent_Nonsense
Summary: When Hogun first set eyes on the shining towers of Asgard, it was as a refugee.





	Hogun the Grim

When Hogun first set eyes on the shining towers of Asgard, it was as a refugee.

The invading army of the Mystic Mogul had arrived barely a year ago and ravaged the Vanir mountains where Hogun’s family had lived. They tore trees from their roots, burned villages to ash and slaughtered anyone who stood in their way. It was senseless – Hogun had heard some say that Mogul wanted the rare minerals said to lie under the mountains, but he found that reason difficult to accept.

Hogun had fought hard, ready to defend his home to his last breath, but when Asgard stepped in on the Vanir side, his father sent him away. Hogun had tried everything to get back to the battle, to fight and die by his family’s side, but it was no use. He was a teenager, the youngest of his brothers, and not yet free to choose his own destiny. He was ripped away from his home by the bifrost and forced to wait, safe but impotent, for news of the war.

That first day, he walked down the rainbow bridge in a sea of fellow Vanir, mostly old, women and children. He was furious, humiliated to be counted as a child even with a sword on his belt. As the refugees walked to the palace, guided by Einherjar, he felt the eyes of countless Aesir pass over him, no doubt wondering why a fit young man walked among the huddled asylum seekers, able to fight but hiding instead.

They were set up in a vast golden hall filled with beds and bustling with healers. He was shown to his own spot – a bed near the far left wall. He shoved his little luggage under it and sat, gazing around. From where he was he could see the city through a window, peaceful and gleaming, and he felt a stab of anger that this realm remained untouched while his was burning and the rivers ran with blood. He had a good view of the rest of the hall as well, and realised he was not the only young man present. There were a few others – some accompanied by more vulnerable family members and all looking just as unhappy as him. That made him feel marginally better, but only for a moment.

A healer approached him and performed some routine checks. He found himself staring at her. He had seen Aesir before, but only diplomats and battle-hardened warriors, and they had all been dishevelled by travel. This healer was clean, immaculately groomed, and had soft, pale skin. She wore a blue robe of sorts with no trace or speck of dirt on it. Her chestnut hair was pinned neatly back. When she caught him staring she didn’t say anything, but he felt distinctly self-conscious.

Soon she was gone, and he was not approached again.

 

***

 

It was perhaps two weeks later when the refugees were informed that the battle was won. Relief swept through the hall and people began to laugh, smile and chatter. Hogun knew better than to celebrate. They hadn’t yet seen the damage or been told the names of the fallen.

Another few days later, the Queen of Asgard, the Allmother Frigga, came to address them. She began by reiterating their victory, praising the generals who led the effort and blessing the warriors who had fought. Cheers rose from the crowd at this, but Hogun knew the queen only said this to soften what came next. She described to the gathered Vanir the damage that had been done to their land – only a few villages still stood and most of the farmland had been poisoned and left barren. Bodies were still being found in the desolated forests. The ground had been torn open and plundered, leaving muddy quarries where before had been noble mountainsides and sacred forests. It would be some time until the land was liveable again, but Asgard swore to help its allies rebuild.

Hogun’s heart grew dark. If Asgard shared even a fraction of its resources, his homeland would prosper, but he had read all about their broken promises in history books. He didn’t have much hope.

Someone passed the queen a scroll of parchment. She was going to read out the names of the dead.

Hogun found himself holding his breath as she read, even though in his heart he already knew his family was dead. When Frigga rolled the parchment back up, he felt empty. She had said their names towards the end. His father and brothers were gone.

There was to be a memorial that night in one of Asgard’s courtyards. He would attend, though he doubted it would ease the tempest in his chest. They were gone. He was alone.

 

***

 

The refugees from Vanaheim had been in Asgard for maybe two months and Thor still hadn’t met a single one of them. He had spied on them, of course, with Loki’s help, but it hadn’t been very interesting. Just a hall full of sad people shuffling about and comforting each other. It had felt wrong to see these private moments, even in a public place, so he hadn’t watched them for long.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?” He had asked his mother one day after she explained to him that it would be another few months before they could send any of them home.

“No, Thor,” she had replied. “You are too young to help rebuild and they don’t want to be bothered by a prince.”

He wasn’t sure he agreed with her. He wasn’t a child any more and could absolutely have helped rebuild, and as for the Vanir staying in the palace, he wouldn’t be _bothering_ them. Who didn’t want to meet the prince? But he stayed out of their way all the same, until one day he came across some of them by accident.

He had training in less than an hour and had arrived early, hoping to get some extra practice in with Sif and Fandral, but when he got there he found the grounds already occupied. A few of the younger Vanir had gathered there and seemed to be in the midst of their own training, but as he drew closer he realised it wasn’t training, but a competition.

A group of teenage boys stood at the back of the grounds, each one brandishing their chosen weapon – some clearly Vanir-made and some from the stock of weapons they used in their own training. Around the edges, girls and the children too young to fight sat as spectators, some rapt and some shouting encouragement. He couldn’t see any mothers or older Vanir. He supposed the youths had snuck off to make their own fun, bringing younger siblings where necessary.

He stood next to Sif, who was already there, watching the competition from outside with interest.

“What is this?” he asked.

“Some kind of casual tournament. That boy in the middle,” she pointed to a tall, strong youth wielding an axe and strutting around like he owned the place. “I’ve watched him defeat ten challengers. It’s a little unfair, since I think he’s older than most of them, but he fights well.”

Thor didn’t have the chance to reply before Fandral appeared on his other side. “A tournament!” He exclaimed, “how exciting! Not sure how old Frømund’s going to feel about it though.”

“We have some time yet. I say we watch.” Thor said.

As he spoke, a nervous Vanir boy, smaller and clearly younger than the champion, was shoved forward, a spear in his hand. He backed away, then, at the encouragement of his peers, stepped forward into the centre ring.

“Well that’s not evenly matched, is it?” Sif sighed, watching the champion pummel the poor boy with the back of his axe.

Thor laughed. “He’s all right – and look, he’s learnt his lesson.” The boy scurried away, cradling his bruised shoulder.

“I bet he’s thankful for that helmet,” Fandral added.

“That’s eleven wins for the champion,” Sif said, “but this looks like a contender.”

One of the Vanir stepped forward. He was perhaps a little older than Thor and looked out of place among his high-spirited peers, his face fixed in a stony glower. In his hand was a battered sword and he wore no armour at all.

“Is this my next challenger?” The champion bellowed, his voice laced with good humour to soften his bravado. “Would you like some protective clothing before we start?”

A little noise flared up as a few of the young men offered pieces of their own armour, but the challenger shook his head. He bowed to the larger lad and assumed a simple _en garde_.

“Very well,” the champion bowed back, then launched into an attack.

The challenger waited until he was close, then darted elegantly aside and counter-attacked before anyone could see what he was doing. The flat side of his sword smacked the older boy in the lower back, not doing any real damage, but startling him enough to make him twist his leg trying to turn back around. The champion grunted, but looked impressed.

“You’ve had some training,” he said, and the other boy said nothing. They circled each other. This time, the challenger opened the attack, but it was a feint. As the champion moved to defend himself, the attack came from the other side and he had to move fast to escape the blow.

“The bigger one has strength on his side,” Fandral commented, “but that axe is unwieldy. If he doesn’t get a hit in soon he’ll run out of energy.”

The fight went on for some time, both Vanir winning some bouts and losing others, but at last it looked like the champion would win again. In an impressive display of strength, he brought the axe straight up into one of the challenger’s attacks and ripped the sword right out of his hand. It flew across the grounds, nearly hitting one of the spectators. He didn’t stop there. He kicked the challenger square in the chest, sending him crashing towards the young warriors still waiting their turn. But he hadn’t yielded yet. The young men parted to make space for the champion and he thrust the axe towards the challenger where he lay on the ground, clearly sure of his victory.

The battle wasn’t won, however. The challenger rolled aside and sprung to his feet, ripping the weapon out of the hands of the nearest bystander. It was a mace.

The champion was caught off guard, and when the mace crashed into his armour it threw him off his feet. The challenger moved fast, thrusting the mace onto the supine champion’s chest.

“Yield!” he shouted. It was the first word he’d spoken.

The silence was tense. Thor felt himself leaning forwards, eager to see the fight’s conclusion.

“I yield,” the champion said, and his challenger pulled him to his feet as the spectators erupted into cheers. They bowed to one another and though Thor couldn’t hear over the noise of the crowd, he saw the champion clap the smaller youth’s shoulder and, if Thor read his lips correctly, said “you fight well. I am honoured to have been beaten.”

In his peripheral vision, Thor saw Loki arrive next to Fandral.

“What’s going on here?”

“The Vanir are having a tournament. We just saw an excellent fight,” he heard Fandral reply, then: “Why did you bring those? Are you planning to fling books at us today instead of using a weapon?”

“I didn’t have time to drop them off anywhere.”

Thor wasn’t interested in chatter He had to see what this new champion was made of. He strode off towards the grounds, ignoring Sif’s call of “Thor, what are you doing?”

As he entered the training grounds a few heads turned to him in confusion, but it wasn’t until he spoke that the cheering died down.

“I congratulate you both on that impressive performance,” he boomed. Or tried to boom – his voice wasn’t quite deep enough yet, but he thought his intention was clear enough. “I am Thor of Asgard, son of Odin, and I would be honoured to challenge your new champion.”

He couldn’t see behind him, but if he could he would have seen Loki hide his face in embarrassment, Fandral laugh heartily and Sif, horrified, unconsciously reach out as if her hand could grasp his shoulder and pull him back to them.

There was silence as the Vanir glanced around at each other, unsure how to react, but the new champion stepped forward without hesitation.

“I am Hogun of Vanaheim, and I accept your challenge.”

Thor felt the familiar excitement flaring up in his belly. He marched to the cupboards that held the equipment and, after surveying its limited contents, picked out a large hammer.

“This shall be my weapon,” he announced.

Hogun of Vanaheim glanced at where his sword still lay, then looked thoughtfully at the mace. “I will keep this,” he said.

“Excellent! May the fight commence.”

 

***

 

Hogun defeated him. It was close – definitely close, but Hogun did win. Thor later pretended that he’d let Hogun win for diplomacy’s sake, but if he was being honest with himself, he had tried his hardest and still lost.

After their fight, Sif and Fandral had bounded over to him to laugh and congratulate Hogun on his victory. General chatter and fun had ensued as the tension broke and the other Vanir felt comfortable enough to socialise with their unexpected Asgardian visitors. The tournament had ended and arrangements were made for another, more formally organised one another day.

The spectators mingled with the warriors now, and Sif found herself encircled by Vanir girls curious about her armour and her status as a warrior as Thor entertained some of the younger children by pretending to lose a fight against one of them. Fandral had sidled up to a particularly pretty older girl and tried to charm her while one of the Vanir warriors was attempting the same thing. Loki, having eventually followed the others into the training grounds, lingered awkwardly nearby until a girl, apparently a sorceress in training, asked to see his books.

When Frømund arrived, he nearly gave himself an aneurysm.

“What are all of you doing here? Out! I have a lesson to teach!”

Thor assured the departing Vanir that they hadn’t done anything wrong and that Frømund was just ‘like that’, earning himself an extended warm up but saving his new friends a lot of worry.

Their training that day was particularly successful. The excitement of meeting the young Vanir gave them quite an energy boost, and though Frømund wasn’t happy about it, he promised to consider inviting those who were interested to join their training the next day.

“But no spectators!” he insisted. “They add nothing and distract us from our purpose.”

Fandral looked disappointed. He’d just have to find some other way to impress the girls.

 

***

 

At training the next day, Frømund trained his usual charges and most of the Vanir boys who had been there the day before. He seemed pretty stressed out, Thor decided, but it wasn’t a big change from usual. The Vanir performed well and it was invaluable to have unfamiliar opponents. The four of them had trained together for so long now that they had fallen into a kind of rhythm, and when suddenly faced with warriors who not only were strangers but had also been taught foreign techniques, the challenge was far greater and much more rewarding.

At the end, they packed up their equipment and swept the grounds, and Thor scanned the faces for the boy who had beaten him the day before – Hogun. He was polishing a sword in silence, his expression still grim. Thor made his way over to him.

“Hello, my friend,” he grinned. “How did you find the session?”

Hogun’s eyes stayed on his sword. “It was different. Educational.”

Thor waited for Hogun to say more, but it looked like he wasn’t going to.

“Would you like to join my friends and I for a walk this afternoon? I would like the opportunity to know you better.”

Hogun looked at him now, his face still unreadable.

“I will join you.”

“Brilliant!” Thor clapped Hogun’s shoulder, eliciting the shadow of a scowl. “I will send for you in a few hours.”

Thor strode away from his new friend feeling pleased with himself and saw Loki already glaring at him impatiently by the exit. He didn’t much feel like going to their governess, but he had thought Swannhild was going to hurl them out of a window last time they’d skipped a lesson. It wasn’t really worth the risk. He waved to Sif and Fandral before following his brother.

 

***

 

Hogun bathed and changed his clothes before going back to his bed in the hall. He had been overwhelmed with boredom for the last few months – so overwhelmed that even his grief began to fade behind frustration. When the other young Vanir wanted to have a tournament he had followed them eagerly, and when they were invited to train with the prince he had been the first to arrive. He hadn’t planned to make any friends, least of all with any young Aesir, who had no chance of understanding his position, but he accepted the young prince’s invitation purely to alleviate some of this unbearable tedium.

He found, to his surprise, that the walk was actually _fun_. He wasn’t expected to speak or entertain or really to contribute anything at all – the prince and his friends were quite happy to put in all the effort themselves. He was asked some questions:

“How long have you been here?”

“What is your sword’s name?”

“Do you like to swim?”

“Are your beds comfy in the hall?”

“What do they give you to eat?”

“Do you want to keep training with us?”

The Aesir seemed quite happy to accept monosyllabic answers and never tried to squeeze more out of him than he was willing to give. They, however, chatted excitedly, flung witticisms at each other, and ran energetically through the trees.

He was invited to see them again and again. Sometimes they would go out, like that first walk in the forest, and sometimes they would stay in and around the palace.

Slowly, he learned that the youngest one was actually the prince’s brother and that Fandral, the cheekiest one, had been their friend since he could barely walk. Sif, the girl, had met them later and was the only girl currently training to be a warrior in the entire realm. He heard about other people in their lives – Frømund the trainer and Swanhild the ‘blood axe’, whatever that meant. Ambjorg the nursemaid, Volstagg the overweight warrior and his charming wife Hildegund, Eir the grumpy healer, Agata the sorceress who taught the youngest prince magic when the queen was too busy, Svala and Ingrid, Fandral’s sisters, Bjorn, Finnvid and Halli, Sif’s brothers… There were so many colourful people, like characters from a comedy. He slowly found himself getting invested in these people and what happened to them. He began to look forward to an invitation from the prince not to alleviate his boredom, but to spend time with people he liked. He stayed fairly silent through all this, but started to speak up occasionally without being asked a question, and he often found himself smiling at his new friends’ antics or the insults they threw at each other. Of course he still mourned for his realm and his family – he was always conscious of the weight of grief on his heart – but when he was with his new carefree friends, he started to feel like he would heal.

The only downside was when the other Vanir noticed Hogun’s sudden popularity and he heard people whispering about him, glancing at him when they thought he wouldn’t notice. Soon he found that he felt isolated among his own people. He lay on his bed in the hall and not a single one of them spoke to him or offered him comfort as they had in the early days of their refuge here. It hurt – he had been ready to die for Vanaheim before his father sent him here, and now its people were growing cold and distant. He wished he could explain to them what he felt. He had no one now. No one at all.

 

***

 

One day, as Hogun was taking his clothes to the palace laundry, a messenger found him and informed him that his presence was requested in one of the reception halls. He found this a little odd, but supposed the request had come from Thor and agreed to follow the man. He was led to an ornate golden door, not one of the main rooms, he was sure, but still as grand as everything seemed to be in Asgard. The messenger pushed open the door and he entered.

He saw, as expected, Thor and his friends. What was unexpected, however, was how formal they seemed to be. Thor sat on a not-quite-a-throne-but-still-posh chair, flanked by his friends – Sif and Fandral on his left and Loki on his right. There was a round table with a heavy box on it in the centre of the room. Hogun was a little apprehensive as he approached.

“Hogun!” Thor stood, clearly intent on playing the role of Prince Thor today. “Approach the ceremonial table.”

He saw Sif and Loki both roll their eyes in an almost identical gesture and his lips twitched. They hadn’t earned a full smile yet though. When he reached the table, he stopped and waited for Thor to continue.

“Hogun. You have fought well, provided excellent company, and represented your realm with honour. In acknowledgement of these services to Asgard, I present you a gift.”

Thor reached for the box – well, it was more of a chest, really. Asgard didn’t do boxes. He pressed something to undo the latch and swung the lid open, turning the chest so that it faced Hogun. Inside was a metallic black ball on the end of a metallic black stick.

“Allow me to present Hridgandr,” Thor announced proudly.

Hogun took the thing by its handle and as he lifted it, deadly black spikes sprung from the surface of the ball.

“A mace,” Thor said, “the weapon you defeated me with when we first met.”

Hogun stared at the weapon. It was beautiful. Strong, shining, perfectly balanced. He gave it a swing and gasped at how easily it handled, as though he had always owned it. He felt a prickle at his eyes but quickly crushed it.

“This is a gift for me?” he asked, unable to conjure any other words.

“It is,” Thor grinned, his stately persona cracking. “It’s a magnificent weapon, isn’t it? I had it made by the blacksmith who makes all the weapons for the palace. You won’t find a finer thing anywhere unless you steal it from a dwarf. And you can keep the box to store it!”

Hogun wondered briefly how to retract the spikes, and as the thought crossed his mind, the weapon responded. He was momentarily startled, but recovered himself quickly and placed the weapon in the chest.

“Thank you, your highness. My friend.” He smiled, and for the first time since the battle reached his village he felt warm.

“There is another thing,” Thor said, apprehensive now.

“Yes?”

“I– well– Mother tells me the refugees can return home soon, which means you would be leaving. I know you probably want to go back, see your family, rebuild your realm, but… If you want to stay here, I have Father’s permission to make you a warrior of the realm. You would be housed in the palace, continue training with us, have anything you need. You can bring family here too, if you want.”

A pang shot through Hogun’s heart. He never told them his family was dead. His expression must have darkened, because Thor quickly added, “I won’t be offended if you decide to go.”

Hogun considered. He had never questioned that it was his duty to return to Vanaheim, but was it? The mountain regions had been ravaged, but much of the realm remained strong, and he had no one left to go back to. He would have to attach himself to another family or try for a position as a warrior somewhere. Was that not what he had just been offered? A home, a house to serve, and a warrior’s training? Vanaheim was under Asgard’s protection now, so in serving Asgard, wouldn’t he be serving his home as well?

He lifted his head and met Thor’s eyes with confidence.

“I accept.”

A grin broke out on his friend’s face and he heard Fandral cheer.

“That is wonderful!” Thor exclaimed. “Welcome to Asgard, Hogun the grim.”


End file.
